“Birdman” – destined to be a masterpiece of classic proportions, even if 97% of the movie-going public doesn’t get it.

At the risk of presenting a long, wordy, supercilious examination of this cinematic tour de force, I will merely say that Birdman is one of the most intelligent, peering American films ever made.


I would say it’s “ironic” that the film offsets the idiocy and American cognitive shallowness of superhero movies against the cerebral, fraught baggage of a thinking person’s struggles from within the confined maze of a layered, non-contiguous existence.

I won’t cite irony, however, as this is the purpose, the artistic design, of Birdman.

Birdman is a testament to this duality.

The battle that tears those of awareness apart: the whorish, sensory-laden call of the basest human hedonism versus the cathartic, but not entirely unpleasing, repulsion found in our bones and its reaffirmation of soulful self-awareness and spiritual ascendance.